In fact, William Clark was indeed acting out of character at this moment.

In the past, he would just retort a couple of times offhand, and most of the time he’d just keep his thoughts to himself. This was the first time he was so openly confrontational, but you couldn’t blame him—it was still Henry Baker's fault.

Even though they hadn’t even met yet, William Clark already had rather complicated feelings toward Henry Baker—

On one hand, he had tracked Hui Gu all the way to Xiping Garden, and before figuring out the truth, it was hard to have any good feelings toward the owner of Xiping Garden.

But on the other hand, he started feeling hungry as soon as he saw Henry Baker.

When you’re starving and someone sets a table full of delicious food in front of you, then puts up a sign saying “Poisoned, you can’t eat it,” wouldn’t you be annoyed?

That’s exactly how William Clark felt right now.

He frowned, stared at Henry Baker for a while, and finally couldn’t stand the strange and subtle standoff anymore, so he turned and walked away.

George Miller was a bit worried and called out, “Mr. Clark, where are you going?”

Without looking back, William Clark went into the kitchen and said stiffly, “Looking for something to eat.”

The kitchen was very clean, with almost nothing on the counter. William Clark opened every cabinet one by one, finding oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, and raw rice. He opened the fridge and checked it from top to bottom—he wasn’t interested in the leftovers and didn’t recognize the rest. Forcing down his irritation, he randomly picked a box.

He only came out of the kitchen after hearing Henry Baker head toward the living room.

So when George Miller turned around, he saw a certain ancestor leaning against the kitchen door, biting into the box of Pepero he’d opened last night, looking over here with a chilly gaze.

For some reason, the scene was just magical.

“How old are you this year?” Henry Baker suddenly asked.

He was clearly here to look at the house, but after a cursory glance, he seemed more interested in chatting. George Miller followed him closely and answered, “Eighteen.”

“Oh, you look pretty young.”

You mean I look short… George Miller grumbled inwardly.

He was timid, and being close to Henry Baker made him uneasy, so he kept glancing back every few steps, desperately hoping William Clark would come over to rescue him—even if it was just to argue.

But William Clark pretended not to notice.

“So your…” Henry Baker also glanced at William Clark, pausing as if deliberately omitting an adjective, “brother? How old is he?”

George Miller suspected the omitted word was something like “fierce,” and was about to make up an answer: “About the same as me—”

When suddenly, from behind, came four words shouted from afar: “None of your business.”

Henry Baker laughed.

Only then did George Miller remember that Charles Sullivan had once said not to casually tell strangers your age—you never know when you’ll run into someone dangerous.

Luckily, he hadn’t been specific. And this Henry Baker… didn’t seem like anyone dangerous.

Rumor had it that among the judges, the Zhang family line produced many talented people—whether from the main family or collateral branches, they were all outstanding among their peers. Only two lines were considered failures: one was Michael Bolton, who came to pay respects yesterday, and the other was Henry Baker, who had been removed from the register.

Even between these two “failures,” there was a difference.

It was said that Michael Bolton's family had average talent and weak constitutions, so their abilities were limited, but even so, they still ranked above William Clark's branch.

As for Henry Baker, he was born under a cursed star, burdened with karmic obstacles—how could he help others? So even if he learned, it was useless, and he was destined to be removed from the family register.

For most people, this would become a lifelong burden, but Henry Baker didn’t seem to care.

He walked past the long family genealogy chart, neither ignoring it nor stopping to study it, but treated it like an ordinary painting—glanced over it and moved on, unconcerned.

William Clark finished a box of snacks with a crunch, tasteless but better than nothing.

He went to the fridge for a box of milk and drank it in a few gulps. The coldness eased his hunger, and feeling a bit better, he tossed the empty box and returned to the living room.

Taking advantage of Henry Baker not looking, George Miller put his hands together and bowed to him, begging him to come save him.

When William Clark walked over, Henry Baker was standing in front of the statue of the founder.

He seemed particularly interested in this spot, his gaze moving from the incense burner full of fine ash to the three characters “Dustless,” then to the painting. He even reached out and brushed the bright red robe of the figure in the painting twice.

George Miller almost blurted out, “Don’t do that, don’t do that! Touching the founder—do you have a death wish?!”

William Clark also frowned and said, “What are you touching?”

Henry Baker rubbed his fingertips.

His fingers were also an unhealthy pale, so the red he’d picked up on his thumb stood out even more. He stared at that red with a strange look for a few seconds and said, “The robe’s color is pretty bright.”

William Clark kept a straight face and ignored him.

Henry Baker asked again, “Who painted this?”

At last, William Clark spoke: “I did.”

That strange look appeared in Henry Baker's eyes again.

William Clark was clearly annoyed by the stare. “Is there a problem?”

Henry Baker said, “Have you ever seen him?”

“Who?” William Clark didn’t catch on.

Henry Baker pointed at the portrait.

It was actually a very odd question—no one would ask a young man in his twenties if he’d ever seen someone from hundreds or thousands of years ago.

But in that moment, William Clark didn’t realize this.